We love you if not each other.
I realize, with a start, that this is it exactly. "Do you know how much Mommy loves you?" I say. [THIS big, as big as the universe...?] you answer with a question. "Even bigger," I reply and you laugh.
Later I watch you sleep, your faces pressed into pillows, almost eight. I know it's pointless to ask, but how did time creep up on us like this? The things this shell could share if sharing were possible. Here we are then, a family of three roaming rooms on our way to somewhere new. I am haunted by the memory of who you were, who I was. This shell, this shell that is no longer a home, has many secrets to tell but I'm no longer interested in the telling, just the moving on.
Of course in the moving on, there is the telling.